Good Evening, Mary
by The Consulting Storyteller
Summary: John came back live in Baker Street after losing Mary, and drowns his sorrow in alcohol. Him and Sherlock end in some kind of relationship where Sherlock will do all he can to make John believe he's still with Mary. EDIT: I wrote a sequel, "Good Evening, Sherlock"


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**Notes:** don't ask me what happened! Browsing Tumblr this morning, I came across a fic rec: "On The Losing Side", by Missselene. The story is about how John comes back live in Baker Street after losing Mary and the baby. Sherlock and him end in a sort of relationship where Sherlock does everything he can to make John believe he's still with Mary.

I don't know why, the plot inspired me my very plot bunny. It's short, I wrote this in few hours, and I draw your attention on a "Mildly dubious consent" tag. Just in case, consent is not clearly expressed, so do what you want with it.

All I can say is that I had to write this.

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**Good Evening, Mary**

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It started like this. A bit naturally.

Nothing really extravagant, nothing really extraordinary. There hadn't been that adrenaline rush peculiar to closed cases, there hadn't been desperate assault, they hadn't look at each other to suddenly throw themselves in each other arms.

John was drunk, that evening.

And how! Since Mary left, John was a wreck. More than once, Sherlock saw him come home completely wasted, his feet heavy with the many beers he drank to forget. Sherlock had finally stopped pointing this out. When he heard the front door slam, as it usually slammed on drinking session, he stopped what he was doing and waited for John in the living room. There, he half-carried him to his bedroom, helped him to lay down, then put on his bedside the water and painkillers he would need the morning after. He never uttered a word, and let John sleep it off.

That evening wasn't any different. The door characteristicly slammed, Sherlock closed his book with a sigh and got up, noting in his mind palace that the painkillers would have to be restocked. He took John by the arm, and made him up the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock never understood what crossed John's mind at that moment, but when John wrapped his arm around his neck, pulled him toward him and kissed him, his whole body short-circuited.

He barely felt John's lips sloppily moving against his own, barely felt John's other arm wrapping around his waist. He was paralysed, unable to move or think. John was squeezing against him, his boozy breath reaching his nostrils, and he was there, with his hand still on John's arm to help him up the stairs. Then John stepped back, a little satisfied smile on his lips, and he went away, heavily climbing up the stairs to his bedroom. Too stunned to think about it, Sherlock forgot the painkillers.

They didn't talk about it the morning after. John was nursing a massive hungover and barely remembered his evening. Maybe it was for the best.

Then it happened a second time, and a third time. The forth time, John felt himself enterprising enough to drag Sherlock to bed with him. Sherlock showed no resistance, not really knowing what he wanted. John undressed him, bent him over, and when he entered him, Sherlock bit the pillow in an attempt to stay quiet, his hands clenched on the bedhead to the point his knuckles were white. John's fingers were sunk in his hips, his body jerkily moving, his breath erratic. He pounded Sherlock's body, sharply, brutally. And as he climaxed, he blurted out a groan : "_Oh, Mary!_"

Sherlock wasn't Mary, he knew it only too well. He didn't have her lascivious curves, her slim waist, her little hands. He was too tall, with too broad shoulders, too narrow hips, a too flat chest. He could see it wasn't the same for John, for whom contacts were limited to his hands clenched on his waist in a semblance of affection. Each time John took him, he was on his knees, his back turned to him. In the end, Sherlock had finally let just a subdued light on in the bedroom, just enough to see, but also just enough to hide his male features.

John started to come home less and less drunk. But it didn't change his behaviour in the bedroom, where a hand on the small of the back and a curse of extasy was the only language.

To learn how to know Mary wasn't difficult. John had kept anything he could of her. Her make-up, her perfumes, few clothes. Sherlock didn't take long to understand the woman she was, the products she used.

He started with his shampoo and shower gel, getting rid of his usual minty aromas in favour of more floral scents. He sprinkled his body with a pearl-scented deodorant. His nose wrinkled smelling so alien scents, but he was ready to try his hardest. He was rewarded for it that evening when John, with a little cry of surprise, suddenly buried his nose in his hair, smelling with delight. That night, he came squeezed against his back, wispering Mary's name.

Sherlock never reached his climax in John's presence. He didn't allow it. Mary didn't have a penis, she didn't ejaculate. What would he look like if he spoiled the sheets with a semen that wasn't John's? So he waited for it to end, his groans muffled by the pillow, and when John was done, he disappeared in the bathroom, his thighs sticky, and it took less than one minute for his brain to shut down.

The mornings after, and the rest of the day, Sherlock was Sherlock. John got down to have breakfast, asked him if he expected a case, without ever mentioning the night before. But in the evening, Sherlock adorned himself in floral scents, dressed in subdued light, and quietly listened to John moaning a name that wasn't his.

John came home the following evening, Sherlock was blond. He spent the night his fist clenched in his hair, licking on his back the fruity smell.

John came home one week later, Sherlock was trying a shade of lipstick in front of the living room mirror. He spent the night watching the crimson mouth bobbing up and down on his penis, moaning at the feeling of the tongue on the head, and he painted the back of his throat in white.

Sherlock stopped violin. Mary didn't play violin. Then he stopped experimenting in the kitchen. Mary didn't used the kitchen as a lab. Then he started trimming and varnishing his nails. That evening, John wanted them around his cock.

Sherlock stopped phoning Lestrade. Mary didn't work with the police. He deleted his website.

John came home one evening, he was sober. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, the spotless table was already set, the air smelled of food.

Sherlock came to him, gracefully moving in his blue and white pyjamas. He indulgently raised a finely outlined eyebrow before the stain on his shirt, a gift from a sick child this afternoon. John smiled, taking his hand to kiss the shining nails, then kissed his raspberry lips.

"Good evening, Mary."

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**Notes:** please, don't kill me...

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